


Pancakes & Pufferfish

by poetroe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Pancakes, accidental poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 14:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15951278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetroe/pseuds/poetroe
Summary: “Posthaste, STAT, ASAP, yes.”“You know, sometimes I think you talk just to make sounds,” Erin says. Holtz, obviously tiring from crouching down next to Erin, falls backwards on her butt.“Well, sometimes I do,” she grins. “But really, if your lips and fingers start getting numb, it’s time to leave.”In her search for Holtzmann's homemade Gatorade, Erin ends up drinking from the wrong mug.





	Pancakes & Pufferfish

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so late to this fandom but it's never too late to contribute, right? Anyways, I wanted to write a little something for this ship because I think they just have great chemistry. Have fun reading!

All the Ghostbusters living in the same place is fun, exciting, and most of all very useful for when another errant ghost pops up on the streets of New York City. Of course, there are some downsides to living and working in the same space, the biggest one being that there’s only a single fridge in the old firehouse. It’ll be fine, Abby said when they first moved in, and yeah, I’ll get my own minibar if we run out of space, Patty said. At the time, Erin agreed; their fridge is nice and big and makes crushed ice. However, she’s about to find out that they were all terribly wrong and that yes, normal food and drinks should at all times be kept in a different fridge than Holtzmann’s experiments.

She probably should have seen this coming from the moment she learned that Jillian prefers mugs over Erlenmeyer flasks.

“I don’t like using the term ‘triple threat’, because it suggests that I’m limited to only three skills, while the fact is that in addition to being a nuclear physicist slash engineer, an expert fighter and a great drinker, I am also a phenomenal cook,” Holtzmann says from behind the desk. She’s completely hidden from view behind the new generator for their new car, this time one that’s a little more safe and a little less nuclear.

“So how come you’ve never made dinner?” Patty says from the couch. “It’s always either Erin or me or Bennie’s shitty take-out.”

“Don’t talk shit about Bennie,” Abby yells. She’s probably standing next to Holtzmann, somewhere behind the scrap metal yard that’s been building in what they call their lab, but what is really an arrangement of tables with various devices and projects strewn around.

“I thought you hated him?” Erin asks.

“I did,” Abby answers. “It was definitely a fiery love-hate relationship. Like if Hell fell into the volcano of Mordor on the sun kind of fiery. But there is a newfound respect between the two of us ever since we saved the city and I’d like to explore that. So, no shit-talking.”

“Okay,” Patty continues, “but I’d still like to eat something other than cold Chinese food every three days.”

“Look,” Holtzmann says, stepping into view and promptly collapsing on the couch, right in between Patty and Erin. It’s all one rapid movement; as soon as her back hits the soft leather, her arms are spread along the back of the couch and her boots are up on the coffee table. “You’re welcome to try anything I make. And, like with my weaponry, I also take requests.”

“Would you make pancakes?” Erin asks. Holtzmann’s right arm slides down until it’s around her shoulders.

“For you, anytime,” Holtz answers with a grin. Then she grabs her yellow steampunk goggles from her forehead and flings them backwards, in the general direction of the lab.

***

Erin wakes up early the next morning, for no real reason at all. Part of her thinks it might still be the early university classes that have been ingrained in her routine, but then she remembers being afraid of the dark and the night and that she has actually always been an early riser. When she gets downstairs, a plate with fresh pancakes is sitting on their large, ebony dinner table. Holtz is already sitting at the table, white clouds swirling up as she puts a mountain of powdered sugar on her pancake.

“Gilbert, hey!” Holtzmann says as soon as she spots Erin in the doorway. “So, I made the pancakes.”

“I can see that,” Erin says as she gets a plate of her own and sits down in front of Holtzmann. Carefully, she pokes at the pile of pancakes with her fork. “Are they… edible?”

“Dozzit look edivle?” Holtz counters, mouth filled with pancake and sugar. Instead of cutting pieces off like a regular person, she’s rolled up her pancake, and taken a bite so large that a good third of it is gone already. Erin looks at the sugar coating Holtz’s lips, then at the pile, and shrugs.

The pancakes aren’t bad, they’re not bad at all. They’re a little bigger and a lot thinner than Erin is used to, but Jillian explains it’s because she’s used a Dutch recipe, that’s more similar to French crêpes than anything else. That morning, it is once again established that Jillian really delves deep into any topic that holds her interest, whether it be designing new proton blasters or cooking up different European styles of pancakes.

“So, I’m going to bed,” Holtz says after she’s worked her way through half the stack of pancakes. “Tell Abby and Patty to never, under _any_ circumstances, microwave these for longer than 3 minutes.”

“Bed? It’s ten thirty,” Erin says. “In the _morning_.”

“I know!” Holtzmann exclaims, before yawning. “It’s super late. By the way, I made some organic watermelon flavored Gatorade last night. You should try it. Electrolytes are the new superfood, baby.” With a wink and a quick little wave, Holtz leaves the room. Erin stares at her retreating form before catching herself. Jillian is a gigantic flirt who calls everyone and their mother ‘baby’, she reprimands herself.

Having been reassured by the pancakes, Erin decides to humor Holtz and try her homemade Gatorade. Their fridge is almost fully stacked with snacks, drinks and the aforementioned experiments, and as Erin sits crouched in front of the assortment of mugs with brightly colored liquids in them, it occurs to her that she probably should have asked Jillian to get it for her. Accidentally drinking a mug filled with fermented ectoplasm is something Erin definitely wants to avoid. The labels on the mugs aren’t very helpful either. Holtzmann uses a shorthand that Erin is inherently unfamiliar with, and she doubts that even Abby knows what Holtz means with ‘triangle triangle 3508 B+’.

Still, they’re a team, right? Erin trusts all of her teammates, even if some are more… destructive than others. She picks up a couple mugs that have green-ish contents. After all, most watermelon flavored things are green. After smelling all the mugs, Erin is pretty sure she has the right one. Most others smelled foul and had her close to retching, but the ‘best receptionist in the world’ mug (Kevin’s) has a sweet, melon-y smell wafting from it. So Erin is pretty sure, and she trusts Jillian, and that’s enough for her to throw her head back and chug the whole thing.

***

It’s about an hour later when Holtzmann returns from her room. Her sleep was restless, like it usually is, but that’s nothing a good ol’ pot of Holtz coffee can’t fix. Before she can start on that caffeine bomb, however, something grabs a hold of her attention and doesn’t let go. On the counter is Kevin’s receptionist’s mug, a mug that she knows used to be in the fridge, and which by any means should still be in there. But it’s not. Suddenly, she notices a faint watermelon smell and Erin’s pink socked feet, sticking out over the arm of the couch.

As rapid as a semi-automatic, an array of thoughts shoot through Holtzmann’s head and organize themselves into a neat little list of information.

  1. Kevin’s mug is empty.
  2. Kevin’s mug, which used to hold her concoction of watermelon flavored tetrodotoxin.
  3. Erin’s pink socks, sticking out.
  4. An hour ago, she told Erin to grab some organic watermelon flavored Gatorade.
  5. The watermelon Gatorade in Patty’s Spider-Man mug.
  6. _Kevin’s mug_ , filled with _tetrodotoxin_ , is  _empty._
  7. Erin’s pink socks, sticking out _horizontally_.
  8. Tetrodotoxin, C11H17N3O8, a potent _neurotoxin_.
  9. Erin’s socks, unmoving.
  10. _Shit_.



Jillian is at the couch faster than the already fast thought process that preceded the move.

“Erin,” she says urgently, hands shaking her teammate’s shoulders roughly. “Gilbert. Erin Gilbert, can you hear me? Can you move? Have you vomited? Any numbness in your lips, fingers, weakness in the muscles? Erin, if you don’t answer right now I’m going to haul you to the nearest hospital posthaste. Erin—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” Erin grumbles as she turns around on the couch, her back to Holtzmann’s fidgeting fingers and concern. She wills her body to fall back asleep, because her nap was so _nice_ before it was interrupted by prodding fingers and demanding words. It doesn’t really work, because— “Did you just say ‘posthaste’?” She sits up and looks at Holtz, who is giving her a sheepish smile.

“Posthaste, STAT, ASAP, yes.”

“You know, sometimes I think you talk just to make sounds,” Erin says. Holtz, obviously tiring from crouching down next to Erin, falls backwards on her butt.

“Well, sometimes I do,” she grins. “But really, if your lips and fingers start getting numb, it’s time to leave.”

“Wait, what?” Words like ‘vomit’, ‘numbness’ and ‘hospital’, they’ve registered in Erin’s brain, but are only just now really sinking in. However, before she can jump up from the couch and ask Jillian what in the name of Jesus Christ she put in that mug, an invisible, heavy weight settles on her chest, making it impossible to move. A tingling sensation, starting in the very tips of her toes, slowly travels upwards through her legs, spreading to her belly and from there to her arms, fingers, and spine. “Jillian,” Erin whispers, now positively freaked out. “What is happening to me, I feel… Like my blood is _simmering_.”

“Oh boy,” Holtzmann says. “Well, you’re not dead, which means the concentration of poison is low enough to be harmless. What you’re feeling now is probably the high that comes with it. Wait, no—it _definitely_ is the high.”

“ _High_?!” Erin whispers back. The word reminds her of a musty dorm room at college, sitting on an unmade bed, holding her thumb on the hole in the bong, trying to take a proper hit. The smoke hurt her throat and she spilled a little bongwater on herself in the process, but at the end of that afternoon she was definitely high, and eating her way through five packs of Swedish Fish. The way she feels now is similar, but at least four times as intense.

“I can see that it’s difficult for you to talk at the moment,” Holtz says calmly as she comes to sit next to Erin on the couch. Erin just nods and tries to focus on Holtzmann’s face, and not the colors and buzzing lines that are scattered around her field of vision. She focuses on Jillian’s eyes in particular, clear blue eyes that look like shelter from the storm Erin finds herself in right now. “I can explain what is happening to you,” Holtz continues. “What you drank is _watermelon flavored tetrodotoxin._ Tetrodotoxin is pufferfish poison, and very, _very_ deadly. However, one of the _fun_ things about pufferfish poison is that the neurotoxin that is capable of killing you, is giving you a pretty great high right now.”

Erin is still looking at the bright blue of Holtzmann’s eyes and forgets to say anything back. Holtz just grins, probably at the panicked expression on her face, and pulls her so close that they’re practically hugging.

“Look,” Holtz says, “I’m gonna stay with you, okay? I know how important you think observation is when it comes to science.” She chuckles. “So, I’m not letting you die, or catch fire, or implode, or anything like that.” Erin just nods and sighs and falls further into their embrace. Her head is held up by Jillian’s shoulder and with her nose in Jillian’s neck, the other woman’s smell is all around her. It’s weirdly calming.

“Thanks,” Erin manages to say. The world is still twisting and turning around her and she most definitely is tripping, but she has Holtzmann as her rock in the turbulent waters of pufferfish poison. Maybe it’s because of the lightheadedness; maybe the high breaks down all of Erin’s carefully constructed walls, or maybe she just feels safe in Jillian’s arms; but when the engineer starts softly reciting the laws of thermodynamics to help calm her down, Erin feels so loved that she can’t help but press a kiss on Holtz’s neck. She’s already said thanks. Besides, if all this means that Jillian loves her, she might as well show that she loves Jillian right back.


End file.
